Bea’s POV
The rooftop lounge looked like a dream carefully curated for photos that would go viral. String lights blinked like stars trying to impress Paris. Waiters in black passed flutes of champagne with practiced smiles. I stepped through the glass doors, letting the warm breeze lift my curls. The black satin dress I wore wasn’t subtle—it was war paint. My heels were sharp, and my lips were red like a dare. I wasn’t here to forget Julian Wolfe. I was here to make sure he never forgot me. Damien spotted me instantly, rising from a velvet loveseat with a smile so easy it made my chest hurt. “Beatriz,” he said, offering his hand like he did everything—smooth and sincere. “You’re the reason the moon’s jealous tonight.” I took his hand, let him pull me in, and reminded myself to breathe like I wasn’t faking half the confidence I wore like armor.
We settled into a rhythm quickly—jokes, drinks, soft touches that didn’t push. Damien was careful without being distant, attentive without trying to impress. He complimented the way I held my glass, the way I laughed. He asked me questions like he actually wanted to know the answers. And I let myself lean into it. Let the warmth of his attention dull the echo of Julian’s voice in my head. When we danced, the music slowed, and I let Damien pull me close. We moved in sync—my head near his shoulder, my hand wrapped in his. It should’ve felt like something. Maybe it even did. But under the rhythm and champagne, a question sat in my chest like a stone: why wasn’t it enough? I caught myself looking around too often. Not for danger. For him.
After the third song and second drink, I excused myself. I needed air—or distance. Maybe both. The hallway was dimly lit, with gold sconces and floor-length mirrors that made me look taller, stronger, lonelier. I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and counted my breaths. I wanted this night to feel like a beginning. I wanted to forget how it felt to stand beside a man who only saw me when I was slipping away. The worst part wasn’t that Julian hadn’t come after me when I quit. It was that I still wanted him to. My phone buzzed in my clutch, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to see his name. I didn’t want to admit how badly I still hoped.
And then the elevator dinged.
My eyes opened before the doors did, and when they slid apart, there he was. Julian Wolfe. Impossibly polished. Eyes colder than the Paris night. The sight of him stole the breath I’d just managed to find. He stepped out like he hadn’t spent the past few days pretending I didn’t matter. Like crashing my moment was something he had every right to do. “Are you stalking me now?” I asked, voice flat. He said nothing for a beat. Then: “I’m not good at losing things.” I crossed my arms. “Too bad. I’m not a thing.” He moved closer, slow and careful. “Damien wants me,” I said before he could speak again. “He’s here. He shows up. You only do when you’re afraid someone else will.”
His face twitched, like he’d rehearsed a better answer but couldn’t use it now. “That’s not why I’m here.” “Then why?” I asked. “To play knight in designer armor?” He looked down for a second, then back at me, eyes rawer than I’d seen before. “I never wanted to own you,” he said. “Then stop acting like I belong to you.” My voice broke slightly, and I hated that it did. “You had your chance, Julian. And you blew it. Over and over. I’m done giving you space to make me feel small.” He didn’t flinch. “I don’t want to fix you,” he said. “I want to love you.” That hit harder than I wanted. I stared at him, stunned. “But I don’t know how,” he finished, like it cost him everything to say.
I felt the weight of those words settle between us. He wasn’t lying. That was the worst part. Julian Wolfe—the man who never let his guard down—was standing here in the quiet glow of a hallway admitting his truth. And it hurts. Because it meant the problem wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he did, and still didn’t know how to show it until it was too late. My breath hitched. “Then why now?” I whispered. “Why here?” His answer was quiet. “Because you’re about to walk into someone else’s arms, and I can’t stand it.” That confession split me wide open. Because I knew what it cost him. And I also knew what it cost me to still want to believe it.
“Julian…” I started, but the word dissolved as a shadow moved beside us.
Damien stepped into the hallway like he’d been waiting for the right moment to enter. He looked between us, calm but not passive. His eyes lingered on me longer—checking, asking without speaking. Then he turned to Julian, posture solid. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t shove. Just stepped beside me, protective without touching. “You should go, Wolfe,” he said. Not loud. Not threatening. Just final.